Rough days in eastern DRC

A patrol in Virunga National Park came under attack from rebels south of Lake Edward. Three people were killed.
http://gorillacd.org/2012/10/26/rebels-attack-ranger-patrol-killing-three/

In an unrelated shocking incident, Dr Mukwege of Panzi Hospital in Bukavu, narrowly escaped a targeted attack from gunmen who had broken into his house and waited for him to return home from an overseas. Mukwege treats many of eastern DRC's rape victims and had recently spoken at the UN General Assembly about how he can treat people's wounds but the international community needs to treat the problems which make these wounds in the first place.

http://allafrica.com/stories/201210260820.html

Return to DRC

Yep, I am back in DRC. Many people might think I'm an idiot for returning after surviving a rebel attack on my base there, and maybe they're right! I arrived on Tuesday night, one day after the famous biennial Sommet de la Francophonie officially closed. Hosting many Francophone country delegates including newly elected French president, this was a chance for the DRC to showcase itself to the world. The French president made some interesting comments leading up to the conference, including an accusation that human rights and democracy are not respected here, but he also expressed his belief that the boundaries of DRC are unalterable. These comments speak to recent events – including the squelching of all opposition (who French president visited while in country) and the trial of police for the murder of famous human rights activist. Furthermore, there is an aggression in the Kivu provinces by a militia group with links to two neighboring countries. Insiders believe that the ambitions of these countries are to gain territory and annex this resource-rich region. Meanwhile one of those countries was just elected to the UN Security Council which might allow it to veto any concrete action against ITSELF…odd!

So what did the DRC show off to the world? I rode from the airport with a Cameroonian guy who lives in Kinshasa, the massive capital city which had hosted the summit. He had left one week prior to the summit and noted several spectacular differences from 10 days earlier, including thousands of blue lights lining the (one and only) major road from the international airport to downtown. In fact the road is wide and almost felt like we were on a runway. Furthermore there were flickering crosswalk lights even where no one would need to cross. It was interesting because the density of lights was highest close to the airport where in fact there aren't really many people and gradually decreased moving toward the city as the population grew denser. So I guess the government is betting high that first impressions will be the most important and obviously these lights aren't all that important for safety.

In downtown there are large murals of a smiling President, smiling Congolese, okapis – the summit and DRC's national emblem – and many murals and streetlights which were meant to make the place look ultra-modern. Furthermore the summit was hosted on a weekend and Congolese were asked to take these days off to relieve the roads of traffic and to hide the reality of how the majority of Kinois are living and working in the informal sector.

Additionally, a massive hotel built for this occasion and allegedly funded entirely by politicians. It looks like it would blend in to Las Vegas. I'm going to check it out more when I get the chance.

But from what I've seen so far, signs of progress in Kinshasa are largely cosmetic and there doesn't seem to be any more organization or state control than before. I noticed this while chatting with my new Cameroonian friend, as we were stuck in traffic for almost 2 hours. People were driving on the wrong sides of the roads, cars were broken down everywhere, and the few police that we saw were unable to improve the situation. So, the same road that had hosted high level delegates in the 24-48 previous hours probably without traffic had returned to its natural state of chaos. This clearly showed me that resources are being canalized towards improving image but not the reality. But substance never mattered as much as style here so that is hardly a surprise.

Epulu bridges falling down (again!)

On September 24th I reflected on the 3 months since the attack...it is still just so depressing. Not a day goes by when I don't think about how the quiet village of Epulu was attacked and destroyed by the hands of a brutal militia - the "Mai-Mai Lumumba" led by a local poacher named Morgan...and then pillaged by the national army...ugh!! Quel malheur!

I want to share a link to my friend's blog post about Epulu. Since the attack, the village had begun to return to a very precarious "normal", but then the bridge fell down again (also in Nov 2009). My colleagues cried out to anyone who would listen about their misfortune. Their livelihoods disrupted by the attack in June and now the inconvenience of having to ford a river just to go to work...while threats of another attack continue.

A sleepy village transformed into a chaotic, bizarre place...MAF pilot John Cadd explains it well in this post:

http://captainsblogafrica.wordpress.com/2012/10/06/captains-log-6-oct-2012-bridge-out-in-the-wild-wild-west-east/

Found: 1:30pm, Sunday afternoon (8.5 hrs after attack)

Deep in my thoughts, I was on a quest to determine how we would escape from our situation. I had a very egotistical hope that my presence in Epulu (the only expatriate) might help speed up the relief effort. I mean, my country, the US, is omnipresent and capable of swooping into any old backwater and saving the day, right? So, if they knew we had been attacked (and that I was there) they’d undoubtedly be working overtime on my behalf, right? Whereas other massacres happen without too much stress for the US embassy, this time, they would know that an American was in the shit and needed help.

But how would I be rescued? Would the UN send a helicopter and pick me up out of there? I began to imagine that a helicopter might come and I would be the one they were going to rescue first. Certainly they’d come with several helicopters to rescue the injured and try to account for me and others. If confronted with scarce places in the chopper, would they allow me to cede my place to those who were gravely injured? Would they then send another helicopter to rescue me later? Ridiculous what the mind comes up with really…I wanted to be important enough to be rescued and a hero at the same time.

Finally at about 1:30 pm, more than 8 hours since the siege had begun began, we heard what we had longed to hear: an aircraft. We listened as it slowly approached, cautiously stepping out of the shady corner of our maize field in order to get a look at the sky. Its approaching rotor assured us that it was a helicopter…and was undoubtedly a UN helicopter. In DRC, they are an indicator of the insecurity which reigns throughout this region, and typically it means that some bad guys are somewhere not too far away.

However, Epulu was different. In three years there, I had only seen one UN helicopter, 1 ½ months prior to the attack, when the rumors about rebels had heightened. It came and made a few sweeps over Epulu and then it went, ready to report back on its mission. Since then, I’d been in Bunia, where a huge UN contingent is based, and these helicopters make daily flights for logistical, transport, and emergency reasons. So, the chopper’s arrival was proof that the outside world had heard about our situation.

We didn’t have much open sky (it being a tiny field in the middle of the bush) but we saw the helicopter, a big grasshopper-shaped thing, which flew at a very high altitude above us, making a bee-line for the station area. It started to sweep over the village area and suddenly a few shots rang out. The rebels were still there and even had the balls to shoot at a UN helico! Surely they UN would have to act! Even if they left, they’d get reinforcements and return. This was the beginning of the end!

The chopper made another wider sweep and then left. In total, the aerial reconnaissance lasted for less than 5 minutes. Despite our small window of sky, we had a good view of the chopper as it departed. I watched with uncertainty as it moved so slowly out and away from us, back towards civilization where they would make decisions about how to break us out of this jungle prison.

I calculated that they’d return in a minimum of 3 hours, so we could still get out before darkness fell at 6:30 pm, that is…if things went well. This wasn’t too much longer to wait.

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Shushing the whispers: Sunday mid-day

They gave me a mango which they had stuffed in their pockets before our abrupt fleet. When they gave me the mango, I realized that I was actually quite hungry. We each enjoyed a mango and got our hands nice and sticky with the juice.

I started to look around just to examine the potential for finding more food. In our tiny maize field, there were indeed some mature ears, given that it was harvest season. Also, the tree above us looked to hold some small guava-type fruits. I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to seem over-excited or to be wrong about the fruits, but I felt confident that we weren’t going to starve…not today anyways! After all, we were in a large mosaic of agricultural fields and fallows, and this was war! Who could withhold from us an ear of maize if we desperately needed it? Or some papaya?

Somewhat satiated, I laid down to rest at mid-day as we had woken up at dawn with the shooting. Crispin and Baraka did also and we all dozed for a little while. I’m not sure how much I actually slept or if I just kind of spaced out. Lying on my back, I would look straight up into the trees, and just think. Then I’d peek at my companions and see that Baraka and Crispin were doing the same thing. We were all dwelling on our current situation and had no desire to really discuss it. We were just thinking.

To distract himself, Baraka started to read some of the Watchtower reading material that he had stuffed in his pockets along with the mangoes before we fled. Crispin allowed him to read for only a few minutes before asking also to read. Then he became ultra-concentrated on the reading and it seemed like he read for an hour straight, totally consumed with Isaiah or whichever prophet had the fortune to be in forced exile with us. Meanwhile, not having any reading material, nor being too interested in stealing WatchTower from a locked-in Crispin, I continued to space out, but also got up to stretch my legs, and Baraka and I got to chatting a little bit. We asked ourselves how we could have gotten into this situation. And how would we get ourselves out? These were questions which we would ask ourselves every few minutes throughout the entire ordeal. Baraka shared my despair but was also resolute that we would get out soon. I agreed and wanted to believe it, but I didn’t know what risks we’d still have to take to get out.

After a little while, Crispin and Baraka got up and chatted. They held a long conversation about the article which Crispin had been reading. Crispin was in the mood of philosophizing, and practically preached to Baraka or posed him question after question about the article which he had just read intently. I tried to listen to them sometimes, catching some of what they were saying but let my mind wander off to do my own philosophizing, but it didn’t really come. All I wanted to do was get out of there, but I knew that was the last thing that I could do. It was not the first time where I would have to exercise patience despite it not coming at all naturally.

Crispin has kind of a deep voice that carries, so when he wasn’t “whispering”, Baraka and I chided him to. We sat together and whispered, and he continued chatting, so we continued to rebuke him. Eventually he adopted quite a nice whisper but sometimes we’d have to remind him. I felt like all my senses were on high alert and kept an eye out on paths and even regularly gazed into the bushes to make sure that my imagination wasn’t playing games with me.

Sporadic gunshots continued, spread out, and at one point grew closer to us. We knew the rebels were in our concession and even entering into the agricultural zone, but they still had a long ways to come to reach us. However, we took the precaution of being as quiet as possible. Crispin, who was convalescent and still had quite some phlegm in his throat, would sometimes clear it and make quite a lot of noise. I tried to imagine how far would it carry through the bush? 20 meters? 100 meters? 300 meters? Baraka and I would both glare at him and tell him that if we were going to be caught, it would be his fault!

Baraka remarked that these guys were very proud now. We imagined that they were strutting around the deserted village and shooting in the air to announce their victory and their continued presence to the thousands of hidden souls. I could imagine the rebels had a spike of testosterone from the battle that they had just won. They had undoubtedly killed many and were all alone with no one in pursuit. They were at the top of the rebel world! Now they would celebrate, intimidate, shoot, and start collecting their booty.

I shivered at the thought of some hideous persons wreaking havoc on the most peaceful little village that I have ever known. How could I now disappear into that jungle by myself to discover birds which I didn’t know existed? How could I now stumble home in pitch darkness from the village bar to my humble little house knowing that I’d arrive just fine? How could I now make a carefree jaunt with my friends through the forest that time had forgotten? How could I now explore the most remote regions of this forest with my trusted and sure-footed pygmy guides? How could I now continue the endless search for the crown jewel of this forest, the silent and elusive okapi? How could I now bring my girlfriend for a romantic getaway which I was so certain would seal her love for me forever? 

Waiting & Listening: Sunday mid-morning

Shortly after settling in to our hiding place, we began to hear gunshots all the way to 4 km down the road (distance is measured from Epulu village eastwards along the road towards villages Eboyo @ 1-4km and Bapukeli @ 5-7km). Our tiny maize field was positioned just below the crest of a hill which sloped gently down towards the river. This would protect us from being heard by anyone who was closer to the road, but also would prevent us from hearing anything very well, except for gunshots. The morning air grew slightly thicker, though the temperature stayed cool as it was overcast. This prevented us from hearing very well but I won’t forget the sound of emptiness.

On hot weekend afternoons, I have often noted an empty silence, which is only accompanied by the white noise of the rushing rapids on Epulu River. Sometimes I am alone in my concession, reading, enjoying the quiet. Few people mill about because of the heat and all I can hear is this rushing. This makes me feel like time has stopped and I start to think about how far away I am…from anything. I cannot call anyone, I don’t see anyone, all I can see is a huge blue sky, and endless green jungle. And all I hear is the rushing river because even the birds find it to be a bit too hot to be chirping or singing. This rushing sound even lives with me when I am not in Epulu. A few days after returning home to Massachusetts one summer, I asked my dad why the creek behind our neighbors’ yard was rushing so much. He corrected me and reminded me that the local highway was the source of the white noise.

However this silence with a rushing river sound is typically broken by signs of life which interrupt my day-dreaming. Huge trucks cross over the Epulu River bridge and the loose planks loudly clang together or loud vehicles drive past. But being so far from the bridge, we could now hear nothing. Sometimes we would imagine sounds. Was that a vehicle crossing the bridge? Or a distant gunshot? Or we’d hear a tapping and strain to hear its source, and then realize that Crispin was unconsciously tapping his shoes together. I’d lie down, close my eyes, and hear some unknown sounds, only to rouse myself and realize they were coming from Baraka’s groaning stomach. We’d laugh and then go back to thinking, chatting or resting.

Similarly to my day-dream filled weekend afternoons, the silence was frequently interrupted and the source was easy to determine. Gunshots pierced the silence at random, with varying distances between them in time and space. We knew that we were not just under attack, but under siege. My thoughts turned to my coworkers…my assistant Martinique, my good friend Tony…what had they experienced up in town? Were they ok? I had no way of knowing. Then my thoughts jumped to maman Asumpta. Had she run and hidden somewhere? Where were her kids and my homonym, her 2-year old daughter, Joelle? Were they ok? I prayed for God to protect them from the gunshots. In my head, I started to count the guards who I decided must be dead. I hoped that if it wasn’t all of them, then that it wasn’t some of the ones who I knew well. But I knew it would be bad, the frequency in which silence was pierced by gunshots, told me that it would be bad.

The Epulu attack: dawn on Sunday, June 24:

The first five hours: 5:00 - 10:00 am - 24 June 2012

On Saturday, June 23, I returned to Epulu with my boss, arriving after 7 pm, by which time it was already dark. I had been away for almost 3 weeks and was very excited to be back at home. I hoped to easily resume my life back at the research center, albeit for only a few days before returning to Bunia, where I had come.

My maman had left dinner on the table for me and after eating well, I went to Robert’s house to watch a football match and then returned to my house when I went to sleep at about 1030pm. I was very tired so sleep came easily and I did not awaken at all during the night. At about 430ish, I woke up with a start and then asked myself, why did I just wake up? Usually when I awake at that time, it is because it is the coldest time of the night, I have to use the toilet, or I’ve just come out of a deep sleep, or a combination thereof. None of these applied and I quickly drifted back to sleep.

But just a few minutes later, I awoke to what sounded like a grand finale of fireworks, which I think was the first volley of gunfire launched, which continued with a lot of strength for at least 15 minutes. As soon as I processed the noise, I knew immediately that the ICCN station was being attacked by the Mai-Mai rebels of Morgan. My first reaction was to just sit on my bed and I started to shiver and pray. This exchange of fire continued for many minutes and I started to imagine where the gunfire was coming from. I imagined that the rebels were on our side of the bridge (Eboyo) but were shooting from the bridge at the ICCN who are posted at the other side of the bridge (Epulu). I stayed in my house and didn’t look out of the windows at all, because I didn’t want anyone to know I was there. At one point, Papa Michel, the old night watchmen, walked past the house, and I called to him without opening the door. I asked him “qu’est-ce qui se passe?”. He replied in a nonchalant manner, “je ne sais pas”. A few minutes later, Michel passed behind my house again and I tried to slip him a note to transmit to Robert, my boss, but he didn’t understand what I was trying to do. Not wanting him to linger by my house to signal my presence, I shooed him off.

The shooting continued and I tried to triangulate its position as it started to disperse and diminish. I imagined that the exchange of gunfire had backed the rebels into the forest where I often go bird-watching. I imagined that they had infiltrated from this forested area, as the rest of the station area is surrounded by village. The shooting died out a bit and seemed to be a bit more random. It was difficult to know what was happening. Imagining that they were in the forest and the park guards were pursuing them, this helped explain that there was hardly any exchange of gunfire.

By 6:30, after 1 ½ hours of gunfire, it largely ceased. I imagined that the WCS chauffeur would come as soon as it had completely stopped, so I started to pack my bags up. They had just been unpacked the night before. I drew the curtains back a little bit to let in some light but I stayed inside my house. With all the fright, I had to urinate several times, so I had used an empty juice box to avoid having to go out to my toilet. I ate nothing so that new food wouldn’t force me to have to invent an inside toilet!

After packing my bags, I opened my computer and typed some emails that I would send as soon as I could get a connection. I saw my neighbor Crispin outside of his house, but decided not to move out of the house or to signal to him, but I kept an eye on his house, which was closer to the road and also to the station.

Suddenly heavy gunfire erupted again from the station area and I realized that the rebels had not slunk off into the forest as I had hoped. A motorbike could be heard crossing the bridge and suddenly 3 loud gunshots were heard from that same area. A few minutes later, Baraka came out of Crispin’s house and started running back towards his house. I knew from his habit, that he would run directly behind my house, so as his footsteps approached the back of my house, I whistled to him and he came into my house. I said, what in the world is going on? Where is Robert? What are we going to do? He didn’t have any immediate responses and told me that he needed to go but that he’d return so that we could make a plan. As he left, I begged him to come back, because I wasn’t sure if he would really come. After he left, I got a bit nervous that he was going to panic and run rather than returning. After just a few long minutes, Baraka and Crispin came to my house with the night watchman, Michel. We were there to decide upon a plan and this made me realize the gravity of the situation. We were going to have to flee our houses into an unknown situation. Where would we go? How long would we be there? I thought of death, of my girlfriend, and started to cry. This was the first time that I felt really desperate. Baraka told me to be strong and comforted me and told me that we were not going to die.

After a minute, I gathered my wits and started talking. These guys said that Michel would lead us towards an area at the back of our compound from where we could flee. We would try to hide ourselves from everybody, even villagers, as we could all be considered “high-value” targets for the attackers. I changed quickly into pants and emptied one of my backpacks which I had just hastily packed. It didn’t make sense to carry a lot of stuff while fleeing. So I just left a few random things like a towel, binoculars, and a pair of shorts; (note: no rainjacket). I grabbed a half-full water bottle and the only food I could; one papaya and one lime. The other guys urged me to hurry as I was still shuffling stuff around tying my shoes as they were already on their way out the door. I yelled at them to wait for me, I wanted us to be together so that we could act tactically, and I was not going to be left behind. Michel led us out of the house in total silence and each of us covered our heads as we walked briskly. There was absolutely no one around, and the only four people who I had seen that day were together.

We got behind Baraka’s house and found some random path which led into the thick fallows which form an impenetrable boundary between the forest and the fields, both of which are much easier to move through. However, I knew that this zone was where we needed to be at the moment. We could move into the forest which lined the river, but it could be more dangerous, as we didn’t know what was lurking there, or if we could be seen from the other side of the river.

We didn’t follow any paths, we just moved at random through a path of least resistance. Crispin led us through a grassy field then through thick pole-like weeds which became totally impenetrable, and then I realized that Papa Michel was no longer with us. This surprised me because he was supposedly the one to lead us. However, being an old man, it made little sense that he’d lead us, but at least he’d stay with us, but he was nowhere to be seen and it seemed as though he might have turned back.

I was positive that we wouldn’t be spotted in this type of habitat. One of my previous bird-watching walks had taken me into this area and resulted in exasperation, as I got stuck again and again in thick brush or weeds before finally emerging into some villager’s fields. We did the same this time around and emerged onto one of the main paths out from our small village, Eboyo, to its agricultural zone, which is a huge mosaic of fields, fallow, bush, and forest. After marching on it for a little while, Baraka made the point that we should deviate, because our current path would make us very easy to spot. We debated in whispers how far out we should go and where we actually would want to stop, whether at a hut or in a field. We quickly nixed the idea of finding a hut, and kept moving, but opted to take a very minor path. We kept moving away, without seeing or hearing a soul. After an hour or so of walking, we arrived at a place where we felt we could stop. It was a tiny field of maize, surrounded by bush and forest on each side. The path didn’t really seem to lead anywhere so we felt like we could sit in the corner of the field which had a view of the path but which was also hidden.

We sat, rested, and started to chat a little bit. It was about 10:00 am on Sunday and we were about 2 km from our concession. I asked where Papa Michel had gone and they said he’d turned back. As we settled down, sporadic gunshots continued and I tried to ascertain their location. They spread out and soon we were sure that gunshots were on both sides of the river. This made me really fear for Papa Michel; I began to imagine the worst. Where had he gone? Had he returned to “defend” our concession? Were those gunshots coming from our concession? Where was he going to hide? Was he still safe?

We began to hypothesize about what had happened and what was going on. They told me that the motorbike which had crossed the bridge had had 3 rebels on it, naked, and they had fired three shots. 

Dikembe blocked

I realize people all make mistakes and are far from perfect, but I still expect a certain level of integrity. Especially some people paint pictures of their good-will and charity to others. Then they are found to be profiting personally from it....that is just incomprehensible.

What I'm talking about is an alleged gold-deal between an army General wanted by the International Criminal Court and Dikembe Mutombo.

Dikembe's gold deal

Dikembe, if this is true...shame on you! How many people were raped and abused in the gathering of this gold! And using the profits for humanitarian activities? That's absurd...do you realize how hypocritical and ridiculous that would be. So much that I don't believe it...you have millions already and greed just knows no limits. I'm sorry to hear this, as Dikembe has done lots of good for some people in DRC and he has been a role model for many Congolese, which is in desperate need of community servants and solid role models. You just lost a lot of respect...

The 3rd Republic continued

I'm not in exile anymore, but I'm not in Canaan either. We've moved past the election period and seemingly nothing has changed except the creation of more uncertainty. The legitimacy of the current regime is in serious question after seriously flawed presidential and legislative elections. Nobody quite knows where to go from here...political parties are busy molding their own versions of truth and clamoring for the rest of the power.

Meanwhile, conservation will continue to be extremely difficult in this political environment. The vast majority of Congolese depend directly on natural resources (what they can hunt, grow, or gather) and are living in abject poverty. Therefore, poaching and mining in protected areas will continue at a high tenor, because the justice system does not function. Poachers spend 3 days in prison, pay off the prison-guards and are back in the forest causing chaos for elephants, as well as native pygmy populations. The pygmies are greatly affected by poaching, as they're either obliged to guide the poachers or they're threatened by them. So one can sometimes ascertain the safety of the forest by which/how many pygmies are living along the road. Conservation faces an uphill battle - in reducing poaching and destruction of ecosystems and species pyramids. Unless things change, it will continue the overexploitation that has been seen in many previous civilizations, but somehow, very rarely in Africa. This reminds me of how few American bison were left before American settlers realized they had to stop and put some controls on their hunting.

Persistent insecurity will not favor the growth of the tourism sector anytime soon, with Virunga NP and Kahuzi-Biega National Parks being the only accessible options in DRC. No matter how you cut it, there is only a very small number of intrepids who are going to take the risk and hassle of coming to DRC. But they should! Its an interesting place, very beautiful, and yet, troubled.